


Fractured

by Noelleian



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Dark, Gen, Horror, M/M, Mystery, Psychological, Weirdness, thrills and chills
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-08-19 23:59:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8229182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noelleian/pseuds/Noelleian
Summary: A series of oneshots and AU’s that are centered around the horror/thriller genre. When dreamscapes become nightmares and your heart begins to flutter with terror, you can only pray that it will be over when the sun comes up.





	1. By Its Cover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duo has a habit of challenging his fellow pilots to an arm wrestling match as a way to settle rifts, though on principle, he makes an exception for Quatre. He breaks his own rule one night after failing to convince the blond to change their dinner menu. Turns out, it was a bad idea, but not for the reasons he'd originally thought. He has no idea what happened, but he does know one thing for certain: It was not worth the price of a lousy cheeseburger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and Happy October! I hope you enjoy this little series of oneshots, straight from the twisted mind of yours truly. ^.^
> 
> This chapter contains some humor and maybe Trowa/Quatre if you squint, though there's nothing obvious to point to a potential romantic pairing which is why I haven't tagged it yet. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing, or its characters. I'm just borrowing them for these stories.

Duo’s obsession with settling a disagreement by instigating an arm wrestling competition was quickly becoming exhausting, not to mention a little embarrassing when he persistently got his ass handed to him. The last beer? Wrestle for it. The last slice of pizza? Wrestle for it. The next in line to use the bathroom? Wrestle for it. Control of the remote? Wrestle for it.

His unwavering losing streak went unbroken for a good two months as each match went to Heero, Trowa, and Wufei declaring victory, leaving Duo to nurse his wounded pride until the next round.

Quatre often watched these matches unfold with a sense of morbid fascination. From the moment Duo slammed his elbow onto the nearest table and provoked his opponent with a snarky quip, to the moment he was bested by the other three pilots’ superior strength and was forced to concede. 

“You just don’t know when to quit, do you?”

Quatre finally had to ask despite his better judgment because it was painful to watch his friend repeatedly run headfirst into a brick wall. On a cold and rainy Friday evening in March while heading into the kitchen to order their weekly takeout, he found Duo sitting on a stool by the counter with a sour look on his face.

He lifted the phone off the cradle and ran his finger down the list of phone numbers pinned to the bulletin board on the wall. “I mean, are you a masochist, or something?” When he received no answer, he turned and leaned against the counter, tapping the phone’s antenna against his lips.

“Duo.”

The boy’s head jerked up and he blinked at Quatre as if he just realized someone else was in the room. “Huh?”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“What are you trying to prove?”

Duo scowled and picked at his fingernails. “Not trying to prove anything. I’m trying to win.”

“You haven’t won once in two months.”

“Thanks for reminding me.”

Quatre hesitated for a moment, not sure he even wanted to ask. “Why don’t you ever challenge me?”

Duo seemed taken off guard by the question, but it lasted for only a few seconds before his mouth quirked and then he doubled over, dissolving into a fit of hysterical laughter. Quatre folded his arms over his chest and waited for him to recover, trying not to feel insulted.

“Oh, Quat,” Duo wheezed, wiping tears from his cheeks. “That’s adorable.”

Quatre narrowed his eyes. “What’s adorable?”

“I can’t challenge you.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Duo exclaimed, as if that was an adequate explanation. When Quatre merely raised a brow, he sputtered and waved his hands around like the answer was obvious.

“Use your words, Duo.”

“Because that would be like challenging a chick!”

Indignity wrapped itself around him like a cloak, insulating his righteous fury. “Excuse me?”

“Well, no offense, buddy.”

“I’m not a “chick”,” he hissed through clenched teeth, wishing now that he’d never even asked. He should have known it was a bad idea.

“Maybe not technically, but -”

“Maybe not _technically?_ ”

“Look, Quat. I ain’t trying to insult you, or nothin’. You’re just…y’know.”

Quatre was too far gone to turn back now. “I’m just… _what_ , Duo?” He pressed, voice low and threatening, just daring the other boy to dig himself in deeper.

“You - you’re just - I mean - you -” He tipped his head back with a defeated sigh, knowing full well he was about to say something that would piss Quatre off to the point where “cold shoulder” wouldn’t even begin to describe the polar atmosphere inside the house for the unforeseeable future. Still, he wasn’t going to lie. The truth will set you free, was what Sister Helen always said.

Then again, Sister Helen didn’t have to confront the scandalized blond. He surrendered himself to the high probability that he would spend the next week sleeping in the garage and avoiding Quatre at all costs and by extension, Trowa as well. It was surreal to witness the normally placid boy transform into a hulking column of bulging muscles, ready and willing to twist your body into a pretzel at the slightest hint of distress from Quatre.

Of course, while Trowa could physically turn you into his personal Rubix Cube, it was Quatre you had to worry about. Trowa could crush your skull with his bare hands, but Quatre knew how to make you disappear _._ Eradicate every trace of your existence until even your own mother was convinced you were only a figment of her imagination.

But mental and intellectual prowess didn’t make a person physically strong which was a requirement for arm wrestling. And quite frankly, physical strength was not something Quatre was blessed with. Sufficed to say, Duo didn’t challenge him because he was afraid of snapping one of the boy’s spindly arms and he wasn’t keen on a vengeful Trowa using him as practice mat.

”Quat, I know you ain’t actually a girl, but…you’re pretty damn close. I don’t want to end up hurting you, or something. That’s all.” There. The truth was out. Now, he could only wait and see if it would indeed set him free, or earn him a one way ticket to the nether world.

Quatre stared at him in contemplative silence for several minutes and then, to Duo's surprise, he shrugged and turned back around to locate the phone number to the pizza place. He chewed his lip as he watched the blond dial the number, wondering if he should press the issue to try and gauge if Quatre was actually okay with that, or if he was simply pretending he was. "You're not mad?"

"Why would I be mad?"

A red flag waved frantically somewhere in Duo's mind though he wasn't sure why. Cautiously, he said, "I just figured that would piss you off. Y'know...being compared to a girl. I don't mean any offense by it. It's just that -"

"It's fine, Duo. Don't worry about it. I understand."

"You do?"

The blond sighed and looked at him over his shoulder. "Yes. I get it. I know I'm not as strong as you guys and that's fine."

"Well, hey. I'm not saying you're not strong. Just, you got the brains, but not the brawn. It's not a bad thing."

"I know."

Relieved, Duo leaned against the counter beside him, his gaze following the length of Quatre's finger. "Where ya ordering from?"

"Pizza King."

Duo's mouth turned down at the corners. "I wanted Burger Hut."

"So? You can get Burger Hut when it's your turn to pick."

"Oh, come on, Quat! Just this once?"

Quatre paused his dialing and looked up at his friend as if he was considering. Duo felt a surge of triumph and maybe even a little smugness, knowing how easily Quatre could be swayed, especially by him. He clasped his hands in front of his face, not too proud to beg if it got him what he wanted.

" _Please?_ Can we get Burger Hut? Can we get Burger Hut? Can we get Burger Hut? Can we get -"

"No."

He stopped short, blinking at the blond in surprise. Well, that was a first. Quatre usually always gave in with a resigned, but good-natured smile. "But -"

"No."

"Quat -"

"No."

He was fully aware that he was on the verge of stomping his feet like a petulant toddler and was rather proud of his self control, though he was still unable to control the whine in his voice. "But, why?"

Quatre pressed the disconnect button and turned to face him. "Do you really want Burger Hut?"

"Yes! Yes, please. I'll do anything."

"Anything?"

"Yes! Yes, anything!" 

"Okay." Quatre set the phone down and walked around the counter, plopping down onto one of the stools. Duo watched with a deepening sense of dread as he realized what he'd just consented to and kicked himself for being so stupid. Quatre thumped his elbow on the counter and held his hand up, staring at him with grave intensity. "Wrestle me for it."

Duo's mouth opened and closed, at a momentary loss for words. "Quat, you know I can't do that."

"Yes, you can. It's easy. You just sit down right there, take my hand, and -"

"I don't want to hurt you."

Quatre eyed him sharply. "Do you want Burger Hut, or not?"

Damn. Was there really anything to debate? Quatre's delicate bones, or his favorite hamburgers. The choice was obvious unless you knew how much Duo loved Burger Hut. But did he love Burger Hut enough to get pummeled by Trowa for breaking Quatre's arm? Was it worth the price of spending the next three months in a body cast? Was it worth that sacrifice?

"Alright, Blondie. But don't say I didn't warn ya." He slid onto the stool across from the other boy and grabbed his hand, wincing a little as he felt the birdlike bones in Quatre's slender fingers. He placed his other hand over their joined ones and smirked, "You still have time to back out, y'know. Either way, it's Burger Hut tonight, but I can make it much less painful for you."

"You're pretty confident, aren't you?"

Duo tightened his fingers around Quatre's hand and leaned forward. "Remember, when you place the order, I like the Triple Hut Burger Combo with cheese, extra onions, and all the fixins'. Don't forget the extra onions like Fei did last time."

Quatre's lip curled up in a sneer. "Just do the countdown."

"Okaaaaay." He shifted on the stool until he found a comfortable position and blew out a deep breath, pushing away the lingering doubt. Quatre asked for it so he had no one to blame for any injuries but himself. "Alright. On your mark. Get set...go!"

_WHAM!_

Duo stared, dumbfounded, at his arm which now lay flat against the counter, pinned down by Quatre's. The blond wiggled his hand, trying to extricate it from the other boy's frozen grip. He finally wrenched it free and reached over to close Duo's gaping mouth.

"Well," he said cheerfully. "Better luck next time, buddy. I'm going to call Pizza King now." He chummily slapped Duo's shoulder and all but skipped around him to get to the phone. 

"But...but how? How is that even possible?"

Quatre shrugged. "It's simple really."

"What is?"

"Duo, there's more to arm wrestling than just the size of your muscles. It also takes cunning and quick reflexes."

"But I'm - you - I have - fuck." He dropped his face into his hands, defeated. "I don't believe this."

Quatre wrapped an arm around his shoulder, though Duo was too depressed to shrug it off. "All this time, you thought you were losing because Heero, Trowa, and Wufei were stronger than you. You were so sure I didn't have a chance because I'm not as strong as you. It never occurred to you that I probably had other ways of making up for that. Brute force only gets you so far, Duo."

Despite his disappointment and humiliation, he let out an astonished bark of laughter. "Fei was right about you."

"How so?"

"One time I asked him who he'd rather run into in a dark alley. Satan, or Treize."

"And?"

"He said, as long as it's not Winner, I really don't care. I didn't understand it at the time. When I asked him if he cared to explain, he said if I didn't already know why, I would eventually." He shot the blond a wry look. "Remind me never to get on your bad side."

Quatre grinned and ruffled Duo's bangs. "Tell you what. I'll order the pizza _and_ I'll place an order for the triple cheese combo at Burger Hut for you."

"Really? With Mountain Dew?"

"Allah. Yes, with Mountain Dew. Good grief." Quatre lifted the phone and punched in the number. "I'm surprised you're not diabetic yet."

"D'awww! You're the best, buddy."

"Yeah, yeah." Quatre pressed the phone to his ear and shooed him out with a flick of his hand. He strutted from the kitchen with a puffed out chest and wide grin on his face and promptly bounced off Trowa's chest as soon as he stepped into the living room. 

"Oh. Hey, Tro. What's shakin'?"

Trowa's eyes flitted up, glancing into the kitchen for a moment before turning his gaze back to Duo. "You do realize the only reason you're getting your way is because Quatre chose to do something nice for you, don't you?"

"Uh...yeah. Sure thing, dude." He took a sideways step, intent on maneuvering around the immovable wall of muscle that was Trowa. He stumbled when an iron grip clamped around his arm and looked up to see fiery green eyes leveled on him in a way that forced him to take an involuntary step back. "What the hell, man?"

Trowa leaned forward and spoke in a soft, but sobering tone. "If I were you, I wouldn't underestimate him again. I would also stop trying to manipulate him into doing what you want."

"I'm not manipulating him," he argued, feeling uncomfortably on the spot and defensive. 

"You are. You take advantage of his generosity, knowing he likes you enough to humor you. But that's all he's doing. Humoring you. If you think he doesn't know what you're doing, think again." Trowa lifted a hand and tapped his temple with his index finger. "He knows far more than you realize."

"Why are you telling me this?"

Trowa shrugged his broad shoulders. "Consider it a heads up. For your own good."

"Yeah. Okay, Tro. Thanks for the advice, brother." He turned to leave, feeling weirdly out of sorts and suddenly in need of a little solitude. He made it four steps before Trowa's voice stopped him in his tracks.

"You might want to take this seriously."

"For Christ's sake, man! What is your problem? It's just dinner! He asked me why I never challenged him to arm wrestle. I told him why and then I asked if we could get Burger Hut instead. He insisted we wrestle for it, he won, and now he's getting the pizza. I don't know why he chose to order Burger Hut for me. He just decided to."

"Quatre never "just decides" to do anything, Duo."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying, you are getting your way because Quatre sees a reason to indulge you. Everything Quatre does has a well thought out strategy behind it."

"Yeah, I'm his friend. He thinks I'm a swell guy."

Trowa's mouth quirked slightly, barely imperceptible, but oddly, it made Duo feel as though he was being pitied. "Keep telling yourself that," he said cryptically and spun on his heel, disappearing into the kitchen.

Duo remained frozen in place, confused and unsettled. It felt as though he was missing something vital, but couldn't imagine what it could possibly be and he wasn't even sure he knew how to ask for it if there was. He was torn between locking himself in his room for the night, or seeking out Heero, or Wufei for some answers. Ultimately, he decided he was too spooked for human interaction at the moment and headed towards his room, belatedly realizing something unprecedented had just happened.

For the first time in his life, he had no appetite.

 

_End._


	2. Madness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Treize visits Pilot Zero Four in the brig and experiences something strange.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No pairings. This story features Treize and Quatre.
> 
> Warnings: Blood, implied violence, and a brief mention of attempted rape.

The brig was insufferably hot, damp, and devoid of fresh air. The vents in the walls hissed, pushing in stagnant, recycled oxygen mixed with thirty percent carbon dioxide. Not enough to kill the prisoners, but enough to make them woozy, lightheaded, and prone to dropping their guard. **  
**

Treize expected to find a slumped over child, bleeding, and broken. Sobbing and lamenting the fact that he’d gotten in over his head and just wanted to go home. The intel he’d received on this prisoner had every indication that the boy was a spoiled whelp who’d just wanted an adventure, but when things inevitably got bloody and brutal, he would realize that getting his hands dirty was not for the posh and pampered.

To his surprise, he was met with the opposite once he entered the brig. In the center of the room, a young blond man was suspended by a thick pair of steel cuffs clamped around his wrists, high enough to keep him on his tip toes at all times. The boy had been deliberately positioned just beneath a leak in the ceiling and his hair was plastered to his head as the steady drip drip drip of condensed condensation rained down on him.

It must be maddening, Treize thought, which was the whole point. A subtle interrogation tactic designed to keep the prisoner uncomfortable and unnerved by the constant percussion of water on the top of his head. Though at the moment, the boy’s head was bowed down and the leaking torrent cascaded over the back of his neck, spilling onto his narrow shoulders. His clothing was soaked and glued to his slender body. A tiny thing he was, but in Treize’s experience with Gundam pilots so far, he knew looks could be deceiving.

There was no noise, no whimpers, cries, or pleas. Just silence and Treize wondered if the kid was asleep. He cleared his throat, loudly enough to be heard over the dripping water and ventilation system and sure enough, the boy shifted, rattling the chains, and lifted his head.

He squinted at Treize, blinking under the spotlight that had been aimed towards his face, trying to see who had come into the brig. Treize remained in the shadows, beyond the boy’s sight. From here, he could see his men had done quite a number on him. There was a large gash beginning just above his left brow and ran down his temple, disappearing beneath his hairline right above his ear. One eye was swollen and bruised and his bottom lip was split down the middle.

“I was wondering when you’d show up.” The boy’s voice was croaky and flat with disuse, but Treize had the sense that it was normally a light, airy, beautiful voice. The kind that made his loved ones smile whenever they heard it. To his irritation, it held no tremor, no fear. No sign that he was distressed in any way despite the damning evidence of his torn clothing.

The shirt, he surmised was a faint pink when dry, but was now a darker rose. It was torn open in the front, exposing a pale shoulder. The belt holding his khaki slacks was unbuckled and his fly unzipped. The trousers hung low on his hips, revealing the waistband of a pair of white briefs.

Treize was mildly unnerved that the boy had known who he was without being able to see him. Either that, or he was bluffing and it was only by a stroke of luck that he’d guessed correctly.

“I find it curious that you’d personally come to see me,” the kid continued. “Do you typically pay the prisoners a visit, or am I just special?”

Treize curled his lip. How dare this _child_  speak to him as if he was an authority. As if he had any power, or control in this situation. Christ, the brat’s head just barely reached the height of his nipple. Treize’s hands twitched, itching to wrap themselves around the scrawny neck and twist until the little bastard’s last breath gurgled from his throat. He clasped them behind his back instead.

“Don’t flatter yourself, boy,” he sneered. He stepped around the prone body, hoping the slow click of his boots on the steel grates did something to rattle the kid’s calm exterior. “I am only concerned for the well-being of my guests.”

The boy threw his head back and cackled which quickly turned into a fit of hysterical coughing. Treize winced as he heard the hollow, almost barking sound and patiently waited for the spasms to subside. “Are you ill?”

The boy’s head turned and he could see the contempt on his face. He really was a pretty little thing. Not someone you’d expect to be a soldier, much less a revered Gundam pilot.

“Wouldn’t you be after standing under dripping water for seventy two hours?” 

Treize was taken aback by the venom in his voice. He lifted his chin and tried to reassure him, though comforting people was not a strength of his. “I will see to it that you are looked after by our medic.” He felt almost bad for the brat until he remembered that three of his men were currently out of commission in the infirmary. “But do not act as though you didn’t have this coming. I’ve one man with a broken jaw. Another one with two broken bones in his arm, and another with a concussion.”

“Perhaps they shouldn’t have tried to rape me,” the boy spat.

Treize’s mouth curled up in amusement. “Forgive me.” He observed him closely, quite impressed with how tough he was despite appearances. “I must admit, you surprise me. You look like you would blow away during a moderate wind storm and yet you took out three of my men with little effort.”

“Have you seen my face? I wouldn’t exactly call it “little effort”.”

“Be that as it may, your injuries are rather mild in comparison. You’re quite a spitfire, aren’t you…Master Winner, is it?”

The boy stiffened and that minute gesture was more than enough to convince Treize that this was a touchy subject for him.

“Not exactly,” the boy admitted. “I’ve been…disowned.”

“But, you are a Winner, are you not? Blood does not change even when family ties do.” He stepped around to the other side so he could see the kid’s face. “Or, should I call you by your real name? Quatre Raberba Alfayed.”

The boy’s head jerked away from him. “We no longer go by that name,” he said, his voice hushed with a trace of long-suppressed pain.

“Of course you don’t,” Treize mused. “Arabs were not very welcome during the early days of colonial development, were they? As brilliant as your grandfather was, he knew he would never get anywhere with a name like Alfayed. As a matter of fact, they still aren’t. Even your father was the target of racist attacks, was he not?”

The boy took a deep breath through his nose, pressing his lips together in an effort not to take the bait. “It’s nothing new.”

“But it was enough to make your grandfather change the family name to something more…Western.” He took a step closer, feeling the mist as the dripping water bounced off the boy’s body. “I’ve read your file in great detail, Quatre.” He watched the kid flinch from the use of his given name. “I must say, you are quite gifted. Your intelligence is off the charts. Likely rivals that of Pilot Zero One if not surpasses it.”

The kid’s mouth twisted in derision. “And?”

“And I’m curious as to what made you disobey your father and join the war efforts.”

“My personal life is none of your business.”

Treize shrugged, unperturbed. “Fair enough.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Ah, that’s quite a loaded question now, isn’t it?” He spun on his heel and took a few steps away, turning his back on the lad. “I want to know what makes you pilots so resourceful. So resilient. By all rights, you should be wasting away in some prep school, or killing brain cells with those video games you kids are so fond of. I want to know what makes you tick. What drives you. Motivates you.” He glanced at the boy over his shoulder. “The five of you seem to possess nine lives. I want to know why you are so hard to kill.”

This time, it was the kid’s turn to shrug. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Don’t play dumb with me, boy.”

To his shock and quickly developing frustration, the brat’s mouth curled up at the corners. There was a gleam of something resembling superiority in those crystalline eyes that put Treize on edge. So much so that he began to feel dizzy.

Or was it from that? He stumbled back on suddenly shaky legs, nearly toppling over onto his ass. He gaped up at the kid who was still grinning at him as if he had the upper hand.

He lifted his hand to his face as he felt a trickle of heat and swiped the pad of his finger beneath his nose, jaw dropping when he saw the smear of blood. The coppery fluid seemed to drain into the back of his throat as well, causing him to gag. “What…what have you done to me?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the little shit quipped, his voice laced with guileless innocence.

Treize pointed a shaky finger at him as he scurried backwards on his haunches. “You’ve - you’ve done something…but how?”

“I suppose there was something still missing from my file,” the boy purred. “Something you didn’t know about. And how could you? It was something my father took the greatest pains to erase.”

Treize’s head shook, unsure what that meant and suddenly terrified by the thunderous pounding of his heart. He clutched a hand over his chest as he turned onto all fours and crawled to the door. He banged on the steel with a fist and a frantic shout, suddenly convinced he was about to die. “Open up! Let me out!”

He tumbled forward as the door slid open, weakened, and allowed his soldiers to pull him to safety. As soon as the door closed, his head began to clear again and the heavy thump of his pulse subsided. He angrily swiped the handkerchief that was offered and held it beneath his nose, waving the fussing men away with an irritable hand. “I’m fine. I said I’m fine! Enough!”

He remained on the floor, wiping the blood from his nose until he felt strong enough to stand. He scrambled over to the console and flicked the switch for the camera feed. His eyes bugged out as he stared into the now empty brig. The cuffs where the boy had been restrained dangled in the air. There was no sign of him. Not a trace.

“Wh - where’d he go? Where is he?”

“Where’s who, Sir?”

“The - that kid! The Gundam pilot. Zero Four. Where is he? He was just there a second ago.”

“Gundam pilot, Sir?”

He turned on the lowly foot soldier who gulped at his commander’s rabid expression. “There was a Gundam pilot in there not a moment before. He was a prisoner, remember? He nearly killed me. Where. Is. He?”

The guard shook his head, not sure what to do. He raised his hands in a show of surrender and Treize couldn’t for the life of him figure out why he looked so confused.

“Begging your pardon, Sir, but…what’s a Gundam pilot?”

His eyes narrowed dangerously and he grabbed a handful of the guard’s pristine uniform. “Are you fucking with me, soldier?”

“N - no, Sir! I would like to answer your question, but…”

“Sir, with all due respect, we’ve never heard of a Gundam pilot. There was no one in that room. We don’t have any prisoners at the moment. Are you…are you sure you’re alright, Sir? Perhaps you should -”

Treize swiped a hand at him and turned away. “Never mind. You’re both on desk duty until I get this sorted out. If I find out you’re playing games with me…”

“Sir, we would never. I wish we knew what -”

“Just forget it.” He shuffled away, straightening his shoulders in an attempt to gather what dignity he had left around himself like a cloak. He strode towards Colonial Une’s quarters, hoping she could make some sense of this.

Strangely, by the time he reached her quarters, he couldn’t remember what the hell had brought him here. Une’s expression was one of deep concern, but also an odd sort of resignation. She invited him in, insisting he lay down on her bed to rest.

He pressed the cool cloth she handed him onto his forehead, wracking his brain for the memory of why he was there. “I know there was…there was a reason I came here, but…” He glanced up at her, desperation in his eyes. “Am I going crazy?”

“Of course not, my liege,” she murmured, though her face said otherwise. He resented the pity, but found he was far too exhausted to dwell on it. “Just rest, my liege. Perhaps once you’ve had a good night’s sleep, you’ll remember why you came here.”

As his eyes drifted closed, he had the sneaking suspicion she was lying to him and wondered if he would remember. Some inkling in the back of his mind told him he wouldn’t. During his final fleeting moments of consciousness, there were vague flashes of blue green eyes, drenched flaxen hair, and a smile that chilled him to the bone before it was lost in a wash of darkness. After fighting it with the last of his strength, he finally lost the battle and succumbed to the pull of sleep.

 

_End._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what happened? Was Quatre real, or just a figment of his imagination? Perhaps the Gundam pilots were never real in the first place and were only concocted in the mind of a madman. Was this an AU Treize who came from a place where Gundam pilots didn’t exist? Did their two separate worlds briefly collide? Or was Quatre someone, or something far more powerful than he realized? You decide! ~.^


	3. The Wanted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They are lovers with a deadly purpose. Masters of the game, they will kill without conscience, or remorse. Lovers, drifters, professional killers on the lamb, they seduce their victims with ease and then move on to the next. Their hearts, though blacker than coal, will only beat for each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have no idea where this came from, but my brain was like, "Bitch, write this." So I did. xP It's a serial killer AU, very dark, violent, and sadistic. Think Bonnie and Clyde, or The Devil's Rejects (sans the creepy incest vibe).
> 
> There are elements of rape/noncon in this, but not in the conventional way, and well...it's complicated. Tl;dr: If you are in anyway uncomfortable with any aspects of noncon, this is not for you. If you are squeamish about violence and sadism, this is not for you.
> 
> Otherwise, enjoy!

The motel room was not what you’d call five stars. It was dingy, outdated, and smelled like stale vomit with traces of whiskey, cigarette smoke, and an underlying odor that made Quatre think of a brothel despite the fact that he’d never stepped foot in one. **  
**

It was the kind of room you wanted to hose down with disinfectant, or better yet, a five gallon drum of gasoline. Strike a match, make a wish, and watch it burn, baby, burn.

Still, it was better than the back of the stolen pickup they’d been camping in for the better part of a week. While sleeping under the stars had its perks, the days had begun to turn cool with the arrival of mid fall. The nights were downright freezing, even when safe and snug in his love’s arms.

They’d paid cash for the room with the money stolen from their latest victim’s wallet, stripped the questionable bedspread away, and collapsed like they hadn’t slept in months. Not even the raunchy stench of cheap beer and even cheaper sex could sabotage the warmth and coziness of the lumpy mattress, or the amenities of hot, running water.

Quatre had yanked up the dial on the wall heater the night before. What the hell, he wasn’t footing the bill. The tiny room was now nice and toasty, maybe even a little warmer than he typically preferred. He rolled onto his back and kicked the blankets off his legs, staring up at the ceiling. It looked as though it suffered a leaking problem that had been sloppily patched over one too many times.

The sun tried its best to seep through the gaudy, disco era drapes and Quatre estimated it to be around nine in the morning. Sleeping in was a luxury they hadn’t been able to afford lately and it was wonderful to just languish in bed beside his man.

Before long, they would be on the run again so they had to enjoy these perks every chance they got.

“You been awake long?”

He turned his head at his lover’s gruff morning voice and smiled at the adorably tousled brown hair and drowsy green eyes. “No. Not long. Did I wake you?”

Trowa turned his face into the pillow to smother his yawn. “No,” he mumbled. “Even if you did, it’s the only way I’d want to be wakened.”

Quatre flicked the tip of his nose. “Flatterer.”

“What time is it?”

He rolled over and glanced at the digital alarm clock. “Nine eighteen. There’s a little diner down the road. Pretty divey, but I’ll bet they make a killer breakfast.”

Muscular arms curled around him and he grinned as he was pulled into his love’s powerful chest. “In case it escaped your notice, this isn’t exactly the Ritz,” Trowa murmured into his hair.

He chuckled and brought one of Trowa’s hands to his mouth, pressing kisses into the dry palm. “What was your first clue? The tacky decor, the seedy ambiance, or the rancid smell?”

“You know I hate multiple choice questions,” Trowa teased wrapping his hand around Quatre’s throat. It was a gentle touch, but Quatre read the message clearly. He turned his head to capture his lover’s lips and moaned into the kiss when Trowa ground his erection against his bare ass. “Where’s the lube?”

He scoffed and pointed towards the floor. “Where it always is. My bag, the little inside pocket. Hurry up and get it.”

“My, you’re impatient this morning.” Trowa rolled off the bed and swiped the bag off the floor.

“Forgive me for being eager to get fucked in an actual bed for once.”

“Even a seedy motel bed?”

Quatre flipped over onto his back and opened his legs, reaching down to fondle himself for his lover’s benefit. “I’m getting lonely over here, love. If you don’t hurry, I just might have to take care of business myself.”

Trowa growled and triumphantly yanked the tube of lubricant out. His gait was a definitive swagger as he stepped back to the bed, crawling across the mattress and pulling Quatre’s hand away from his groin. “Not on my watch, baby,” he rasped and lowered his head to suck his lover’s cock into his mouth.

Quatre’s retort was lost in a gravelly moan. He arched his back, pushing his length deeper into the hot, wet suction, his fingers tangling into Trowa’s silky brown hair. “Mmm...don’t make me wait, baby. I want you inside me.”

 

*******

 

They walked to the diner just after eleven. It was a warmer day than it had been recently. An Indian Summer as it was called and the sun felt good on their backs as they walked down the road, opting against taking the truck in favor of fresh air and exercise.

Trowa rifled through his wallet as they crossed the parking lot, his brows drawn low in a deep frown. Something Quatre knew was never good news.

“How much cash do we have left?”

“About seventy. It’ll cost a good forty to fill up the tank before we hit the road and we’ll need to eat later, too.”

“Obviously,” Quatre drawled. “Maybe we’ll find a john here with an equitable amount.”

“This is a trucker’s dive, babe. Of course there’s a qualifying john here. Probably several of them. I’ll bet more than a few of them are pretty hard up, too.”

Quatre tossed his blond hair and slipped his sunglasses over his head. “Well, then I guess it’s a good thing I wore my Sunday best,” he winked.

Their MO was simple, but also laughably effective. The delicate, blond pretty boy and his roughneck boyfriend. They played off each other beautifully with Quatre luring their victims in with his flirty wiles. Trowa would pretend to be oblivious, keeping his distance, though he always remained close enough to intersect if something went wrong. He was the silent shadow, seemingly indifferent and when the deal was sealed, he trailed his lover and their victim when they ultimately sought someplace a bit more private.

Quatre would wait until he’d been stripped bare and lay pinned beneath the Neanderthal’s weight before he began to protest the pawing hands and amorous kisses. His inevitable shout for help was Trowa’s cue to intervene which would lead to a confrontation between himself and their victim and end with Trowa’s signature hunting knife slicing their throats open.

Killing was a drug neither of them could escape. A high unlike no other. The monkey on their backs that drove them to it again and again and again. They fucked in the aftermath of their kills. Raw, carnal, and violent with Trowa sweeping him into his arms and forcing his way inside his pliant body. He growled like a savage into Quatre’s neck, relishing the blunt nails that dragged up his back, drawing blood, and the clench of thighs around his waist as he ruthlessly thrust to a heart-stopping completion.

After a shared smoke, they would wrap the body and dispose of it in a remote location. Then, they would move onto the next town, spending the stolen money until it dwindled and they were forced to find another sacrificial lamb.

They had eluded the authorities for nearly two years. Constantly on the move and careful not to leave any traces of their involvement behind. Most of their victims still had yet to be found. Only one was located, but by the time the police got to it, it was so badly decomposed and ravaged by wildlife, there was nothing left linking it back to them.

The feigned attempted rape was their only defense in the event they were ever caught. They’d rehearsed it enough times that it was simply second nature now. Quatre’s performance was Oscar-worthy right down to the flowing tears and the quivering lips. With a face like his, there was no way a jury would convict.

The blond wore his trademark outfit, the textbook definition of a pretty twink with his gloriously rounded backside stretching the back of his denim cutoffs. Propping up that ass that wouldn’t quit were deliciously curved, creamy thighs. Above the shorts, he wore a t-shirt tight enough to show off his lithe frame and slender shoulders, in pastel colors for an air of purity and innocence.

His thick blond waves were meticulously styled, curling around his ears, the back of his neck, and fetchingly tousled over his forehead. His face was almost pixie like, feminine in appearance, but with enough masculinity in the line of his jaw and chin to convince any onlookers that this was indeed a man. His eyes were like a blue sky on a summer day, bright and sunny with a hint of mischief and jovial flirtation.

He was sin incarnate. Especially when he swayed those hips and spun one of those Tootsie Pops he was so fond of between his lascivious lips. Cherry, of course, which stained the plump flesh of his mouth like glossy rouge. Not even the saints themselves could resist such temptation.

He played their victims like the fools they were. Luring them in with a saucy wink and coquettish compliment. He would often play the role of a helpless damsel, requiring assistance with a flat tire, “And who better than a big, strong man like you?”

He played the game unerringly well, at first pretending to be a pillar of virtue and then shyly confessing with a bat of his inhumanly long eyelashes, that he’d always wanted to lose his virginity to a perfect specimen of power and masculinity such as themselves. A _real_ man. One who knew how to fuck. One who knew how to put him in his place. He would stick the tip of his finger between those luscious lips, drawing the eyes and predictably, the mind to the pleasure that mouth could invoke if given the chance.

It worked every time. Sometimes, they would simply retreat to the cabin of the victims' trucks and Quatre would play the blushing virgin, ducking his head with soft giggles as the meaty hands peeled his clothing from his body and touched places only one man was allowed access to.

Other times, they found a room at a nearby motel and once Quatre’s nude body was exposed to their ravenous gazes, the lust became too much. He would find himself thrown onto the bed, restrained by a heavy weight that often smelled of stale cigars, Old Spice, and far too many nights of sexual gratification at their own hands.

He endured the hungry mouths that latched onto the delicate skin of his throat and the scratchiness of their six o’clock shadows. The push of their groins into the inviting space between his thighs and the hands that groped and pawed at his flesh. It was then he feigned his second thoughts. Once they were desperate to fuck and too far gone to stop.

His token resistance egged them on and they growled and snarled, empowered in the throes of sexual dominance, pinning his slender arms above his head and going for broke. The only thing on their minds was the promise of ecstasy inside his body.

And Trowa...Trowa was always nearby. Out of sight until he heard the cry. Quatre would wait until the rape was almost imminent, but always before they could penetrate him. With their dicks out, questing between his thighs, seeking the opening that would allow them a glimpse of Heaven, Quatre would give the signal and Trowa, waiting outside, would kick the door in and come to the rescue.

The sex that came in the aftermath was always Quatre’s favorite. It was when Trowa was at his most primitive. A fucking machine, operating solely on the heady fumes of adrenaline, rage, and his need for possession. He would pin Quatre against the wall and fuck up into him as if his life depended on it, hissing covetous declarations of ownership against the shell of his ear.

He was obsessed with reclaiming what was rightfully his. Cleansing the filth of the men who’d dared to lay hands upon his love. As if they'd ever had a snowball’s chance in hell to experience the rapture of fucking Quatre. It was absurd and unbelievably gratifying to take those overconfident slobs down a few pegs. They were not worthy and they never would be.

 

*******

 

They reached the diner and Trowa held the door open for him with a murmured, “Look for a wedding band.”

He winked one turquoise eye at his lover as he passed. “Don’t I always?”

The place was rather busy being that it was Sunday and brunch was in full swing. It was noisy and hectic which suited them perfectly. Distracting situations worked in their favor. The more chaotic, the better. It muddied the memories of any potential witnesses and with so much going on, no one could really ever be sure exactly what they saw.

Quatre spotted the perfect candidate while they waited for a table to clear. The first step was to make eye contact which happened pretty quickly. Now, the trick was to maintain it. Make the man want to look back again and again. He flushed prettily and glanced away, paused, and then made contact again, this time with a shy smile curling up the corners of his mouth.

The man was definitely a trucker. An out-of-towner sitting alone in one of the booths. After the second contact was made, Quatre feigned disinterest, though he was keenly aware that the man was looking back at him, could see him in his peripheral vision.

Now that Quatre had caught his interest, his job was to dig his hooks in deep enough to convince the man that he could make it worth his while. Married men were surprisingly easy to get and they were often hornier than a jackrabbit on a date. They typically carried more cash and credit cards on their persons as well which was why they were a favorable target.

Turning on the charm came like second nature to him. He flirted with the man at a distance while Trowa pretended to be oblivious. In reality, he knew exactly what was happening at all times. He always did, an expert at observation and slippery as an eel.

They enjoyed their meal and made relative small talk with Trowa giving Quatre opportunities to continue subtly flirting with the john by occasionally looking away. Quatre batted his lashes and twisted yellow curls around his fingers and watched with sadistic glee as the man shifted, becoming visibly flustered.

It was almost too easy.

When Trowa left for the bathroom, that was Quatre’s cue to move onto the next phase. He turned the charm up full throttle, his alluring presence wrapping around his victim like wisps of smoke and prompting him to rise from his seat. He propped his chin on his hand and tracked the man's approach, his gait a little awkward as he hoisted his low hanging jeans back up over nonexistent hips.

A flutter of excitement flailed around in Quatre's belly, hopelessly addicted and he shivered with anticipation of what was to come. His senses were on high, keen and ready. Arousal flared through his body at the thought of those big hands pulling and tugging at his clothing, squeezing the soft cheeks of his ass. The breath laced with coffee, bacon, and eggs as he sought a taste of Quatre's mouth and ultimately, the press of his weight and the hardness of his groin against his thigh, rubbing hot friction over his skin.

The man would be stopped before he ever had a chance to fuck him and Quatre would bask in the breathtaking sight of watching his lover cut him down, his pupils dilating with adrenaline and covetous arousal. Damn, but Trowa was most beautiful like that. His eyes feral, his teeth gnashed beneath a curled lip. There was no mercy. There never was.

And then he would turn to his lover, breathing hard, bulging muscles even harder. The blood spatter on his beautiful face was brutally erotic. Power, dominance, and possessiveness would ooze from his very pores, rendering Quatre helpless to his seductive aura and begging to be taken. He would strip out of his bloody clothes and pounce, his cock seeking delicious entry which Quatre eagerly surrendered, their moans harmonizing in perfect pitch of their victim's death rattle.

"Hey...I uh...I couldn't help but notice the way you looked at me. Is that other guy - is he your boyfriend?"

Quatre graced him with a beatific smile and waved a delicate hand. "Only when it suits me. What's your name, stud?"

The man blushed furiously and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, thrusting the other at Quatre. "It's...it's uh, Steve."

He reached out and took the hand, shaking it amicably. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, uh Steve." He glanced around and then shot the man a pointed look. "It's quite crowded in here and I'm pretty sure you're not interested in small talk, are you, uh Steve?"

The man laughed and shook his head, obviously feeling self-conscious. "Yeah, sorry. It's just Steve. I'm just passing through on my way to Phoenix. I drive a rig for a living. Not exactly glamorous."

"Don't sell yourself short, Steve. Rigs are sexy. Rugged. The heady fumes of diesel and freedom never fail to excite me. There's nothing better than the open road."

Steve's face lit up, genuinely flattered. Quatre almost felt sorry for his inevitable untimely demise. He jerked a thumb behind him and said, "You want I can show you? I can give you a quick spin on the ol' gal if you'd like."

"You just said the magic words, Steve, my man." He slid out of the booth and linked their arms together. "Lead the way."

He hesitated, glancing back towards the restrooms. "What about your boyfriend?"

"Oh, he'll be fine. He knows I like to proposition truckers for a ride. You're not planning on murdering little old me and dumping my remains in the desert, are you?" He asked with a playful wink.

Steve laughed, a little embarrassed. "No, nothin' like that. I promise I'll bring you right back after I give you a spin. How's that sound?"

"Works for me, big guy. Let's see what you got."

He cast one last glance over his shoulder and met Trowa's dark gaze as he exited the restroom. His lover dipped his head in an approving nod, their unspoken communication traveling across the diner, as old and familiar as the Earth itself. He thanked Steve when he held the door open and stepped out into the sunlight, knowing Trowa would be trailing behind, tracking their every move.

With any luck, they'd be on their way to Nevada by midnight with a nice reserve of money in their pockets. At least enough to get them over the border within two days. Steve gestured towards his rig and offered his arm again which Quatre accepted with a toothy smile, all cheery sunshine and tempting innocence. Though in the back of his mind, he was anticipating the blood, death, and sex to come with a sinister twist of giddiness in his belly. 

Let the games begin...


	4. Incubus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I do not seek forgiveness, or salvation. Survival is my God, instinct is my drive, hunger is my damnation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ???/???  
>  Dubcon, Implied Major Character Death. Very dark.  
> Rated: Explicit.

I survive on it, thrive on it. Need it, need  _him_ to give me life. He is the sun to my moon, the stars to my empty void. He breathes into me and forces this blackened, cancerous heart to beat again.

He bears the marks of my attentions. From red, to black, to purple, to sickly yellow. He says nothing about them, but as time goes on, I see the light that used to shine in his eyes turn dull and lifeless. Lifeless like I used to be.

Instead, that light shines in _my_ eyes. 

It’s too late for him now. He’s my vice, my drug. I can’t stop...I can never stop. To do so would destroy me as surely as I’m destroying him. The purity that resides within him bleeds into me and it’s like I’m flying, soaring among a cloudless sky. The clarity with which I see, the lightness with which I’ve come to be...it is not my own. It was stolen from the one I hold in my possession. The one who will die at my hands because I’m too addicted to this feeling, addicted to life. Clinging desperately to an existence which seems perpetually elusive, like wisps of smoke that slip between my fingers. 

So I continue on as I always do, rolling him onto his belly beneath me. He goes where I take him, lassitude rendering his body pliant. My own little puppet whose strings I not only control, but have created of my own volition. 

He hasn’t been the same since I took the one he loved, but he must understand that it’s simply what I do. I know he does. He's a smart one. I can see the pity in his eyes even while he’s pinned beneath me with his legs hooked over my shoulders. It enrages me so I fuck him harder and harder until the pity turns to pain. Because anything in this God-forsaken world is better than pity. 

He whimpers into the pillow as I push inside him, the fourth time I’ve taken him on this night. His body accepts the intrusion. He’s learned. He’s learned to go with it. He knows he has no say. No place to go, no one to take him in. I’m all he’s got.

It's a cruel, but necessary part of the grand design.

His thighs open wider to accommodate the press of my hips and he allows himself to be plundered. He no longer has any fight left in him. I took that from him, too. 

I smother my growl of pleasure into the back of his head and pant into hair that’s matted and slightly oily. It’s time for me to bathe him again. Something I admit I don’t always remember to do. His body flexes beneath mine and the result is a delicious ripple that caresses my manhood in a heady squeeze. It’s the sign I’ve been waiting for since the moment I first entered him. The sign that he’s finally beginning to enjoy it. 

Encouraged, I lean up and clamp my fingers tight around his arms, pinning the fragile limbs to the mattress. I dig into him, hard and deep, my gaze dropping to devour the exquisite vision of our joining. That pale glimpse of my cock in the murky darkness before it disappears inside him again. 

He squirms and whines in frustration, his mind and body at war with each other. He doesn’t want to come. He never does, but he’s helpless against the press of my cock, to the sinful rapture of being fucked. I know the exact moment he gives into it, surrendering himself to the inevitable. His body goes lax but for the rise and fall of his hips as he seeks stimulation to the place he craves it most.

And who am I to deny him? The only reason he’s here is because of the pleasure he brings me. The life he sacrifices so that I can exist. As he climaxes with a stuttering cry, a whimper of defeat, another piece of him breaks off and I do not hesitate to consume it as I have every piece of him he’s already lost.

He weeps into the pillow, knowing any attempt to reclaim it is fruitless. It’s already lost to him. It’s already a part of me. I know it won’t be long now before it’s his visage that I see in my reflection.

I push harder, jarring his body across the bed as I seek to consume as much of him as I can. I can feel the braid of my vessel sticking to the sweaty skin on my back. I can picture the curl of its lips when the pleasure climbs to its soaring peak and shrinks down into an infinite point in its groin before it blows outward in every direction, a supernovae of demonic rapture confined within the flesh of a human.

He cries as I lay across him, pinning him beneath my weight, but I pay it no heed. It is nothing new. My pet is weak, feeble as they all are despite their delusions of grandeur. It’s not until they come face to face with something greater than themselves that they realize they are not at the top of the food chain. For a species such as this, it's a very long way to fall.

In all honestly, I don’t even remember what I really look like anymore. I’ve wandered the Earth for so long, have taken on so many forms that I cannot recall my real face when I gaze into a mirror. I see only the faces of my conquests. My vessels. The flesh, blood, and bone of mankind and when this body expires, I will wear a new one. When this human beneath me has nothing left to give, I will dispose of him and capture another. I will obliterate everyone and everything they love until they are beholden to me and only me. And then I will suck them dry until they are empty voids, obsolete to a creature such as myself who only exists to consume. 

It's the circle of life, after all.

I am a locust. A demon. It’s what I do. It’s what I am. There is no creature alive that doesn’t seek its own preservation by any means necessary and I am no different. I was created to consume, to devour. To destroy. It is not within my abilities to feel compassion. It is a useless endeavor and one that will lead to obliteration. A ceasing of existence. And ceasing to exist is something I will not do.

My human is quiet now and I lift my head just enough to see him in the fading gray light outside the window. He is so young, so beautiful. I wrap the end of a flaxen curl around my finger and it does not warrant a response. Not even a flinch, or twitch. He is spent which is just as well. He must preserve what little energy he has left until the moment I need him again. 

I stand from the bed, leaving his nude body sprawled across the rumpled black comforter. His alabaster skin, even paler now than it was in the beginning makes a stunningly stark contrast against the endless dark of the bed cover and I realize that the parallel is far more literal than it seems. He’s a sacrificial lamb caught in the gaping maw of an event horizon. Soon, he will be pulled in by its gravity, lost to the world he once knew and cherished.

What happens to him after that is not my concern. Will he reunite with the love I took from him? Will he simply cease to exist? It does not matter. That is not my department and if I allow myself to care, it would be to my own detriment, lead to my eventual demise. 

I leave him where he is, knowing he will not run, and head to the bathroom to tend to my vessel’s biological needs. My human eyes ache when I flip the light on and I blink the tears away as they adjust. Such primitive eyes, so blind, so different than my original ones.

My reflection stares back at me. Rather, not mine, but that of my current vessel. He appears perfectly benign despite the entity that lives beneath the golden skin and layers of sinew. It's not just a man. It's a wolf in sheep's clothing. The eyes are still the same deep blue they’ve been since I first took on this body, but tonight is the night I finally begin to notice the first outwardly physical change. 

It starts at the top of my head and I grab the braid that lays against my back, pulling it around to get a better look. Threaded within the chestnut brown is a long streak of gold, identical to the color that crowns my current pet’s head.

It won’t be long now. Soon, the rest will match. The braid will disappear, replaced by luxurious sun-lit waves that will curl around my ears and forehead. Soon, my eyes will pale, resembling that of a sunny sky on a summer day. The shape of my face, the size of my body, the tinder and resonance of my voice will shift and transform until I look and sound indistinguishable to the young man passed out in my bed. Once the transformation is complete, my prey, having served his purpose, will die. 

I do not know what my next vessel will look like, nor the vessel after that. It doesn’t matter. After so long, it becomes immaterial, irrelevant. Taking on the forms of my prey is simply a consequence. An evolutionary mutation that has enabled my survival. 

Until then, I will assume this form until I drain my pet, and assume _his_ form until I drain the next. In the end, that’s all any of us really do. Divide, conquer, consume every possible resource, and then move on to greener pastures.

I’ve learned not to question it. There are no answers to be found. No whys, or hows. It’s life. It’s the drive to live another day, no matter how miserable and pointless the existence. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whistles innocently*


End file.
